


You Only Feel It Once

by Miss_M



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Smut, Smutlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To her considerable surprise, Brienne finds that dishonor is easier to bear than she had anticipated. She is less bothered by the knowledge that she beds down with the man still known to the realm as the Kingslayer than she was at half the realm’s assumption he had been her bedmate from the start.</p><p>Sharing a bed with Jaime Lannister is not what Brienne had expected. It’s more complicated. But she finds she likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Only Feel It Once

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to write J/B first-time smut. But then I got to thinking how there isn’t enough J/B smut, first-time or other, where we see things exclusively from Brienne’s POV. So I ended up writing that instead. 
> 
> Title is from _Dangerous Liaisons_. I also borrowed a verb from Geoffrey Chaucer, and an image from Jim Crace’s _The Pesthouse_. I own nothing but the smut. 
> 
> Set vaguely post-canon

To her considerable surprise, Brienne finds that dishonor is easier to bear than she had anticipated. She is less bothered by the knowledge that she beds down with the man still known to the realm as the Kingslayer than she was at half the realm’s assumption he had been her bedmate from the start. Sometimes, still, she feels a pang of conscience, sharp as a splash of ice cold water first thing in what everyone agreed to call ‘morning’ during the Long Night. But those pangs are growing fewer and fewer the more time passes, the more the nights grow warmer and she spends them with the feverish glide of Jaime’s skin on hers, the longer her mornings start with the warmth of his breath on her bare shoulder. 

Sometimes Brienne misses the clarity shame used to bring her. The certain knowledge that she may look the same, but was tarnished beyond redemption by her deeds rather than knaves’ words could sometimes help her focus. Help her see herself as she was, not as she appeared to be. Sometimes. 

She does, however, forbid Jaime from calling her the Wench of Tarth where other people can hear. 

“They should know what to call you,” he explained mock seriously, a wicked gleam in his eye. “It would be a gross lie to claim you are the Maid of Tarth still. Terribly dishonorable.” She glared at him to be quiet while he slid his good hand over her knee under the tavern table, and smiled his careless, knowing smile. 

She will not tell him that it sends a shiver down her back and legs to hear him hiss the words in the comparative privacy of some wayside bedchamber. “Wench of Tarth. My wench. _Mine_.” It can feel like some invisible hand has shaken her by her spine while Jaime squeezes her small breasts from behind, slips his maimed arm around her thick waist. Flicks her cheek with the tip of his tongue, laves the ruined flesh there like it is the softest, most tender part of her. She will not reveal that of all his bedtricks she responds to this most readily, just as she will never say she knows he likes it when she kisses the healed scars on his stump, strokes that puckered, tender flesh down her long throat, over her breasts, down her muscular belly. She will not say this, but she does not begrudge Jaime the smug smile or teasing words he indulges in while he undresses her and touches her, makes her quiver inside her skin. 

Brienne discovers that she knows things she was never told. She knows she cannot, should not, begrudge the thoughts that sometimes crowd in on her while they couple, the faces of those lost long ago that crowd around their bed, push in front of her eyes as though they were still alive, always there, with them. She shuts her eyes against them, but maybe it is what she does with Jaime that summons them. When he kisses and licks her and strokes her with a gentle, demanding finger, Brienne does not want to see his sister’s face and think how he learned to make a woman squirm and pant. Does not want to see Hyle Hunt, who promised to make her feel like this in words which ensured he would never get the chance, whom she lost as surely as if she had killed him herself. Tiny spasms like starbursts shoot through her limbs, and Brienne rolls her head on the pillow and pushes against Jaime’s mouth, and does not resent him for loving another before her, does not wonder if he ever thinks about his golden twin, food for maggots now. If he ever tastes Cersei while he laps at her, Brienne. 

She _does_ think that when she crosses her legs behind his lean back and squeezes him with her strong thighs, when his breath hitches and he pants at her to ease up even as he thrusts harder, his desire turning ragged at the edges, she has all the power. Her septa’s words and her time around soldiers taught her to fear the very thought of a naked man, to consider men’s flesh a threat of almost mythic proportions, and it can be so. Nobody ever told her a naked man could be fragile. But in those moments, when she does not mind thinking of herself as a beast as she licks his mouth, his eye, his throat, and rakes her short nails down his back, Brienne knows she could not hurt Jaime worse than to push him off, make him stop, ask him if he ever sees another while he fucks her. She knows this with a certainty she learned in no maester’s scroll, on no field of battle.

She did not realize before that first cold night by the King’s Road, when she let Jaime crawl under her furs and do everything he had often playfully threatened to do, that dishonor and shame could be just another kind of pain. Not even the worst kind. That was another thing the songs got wrong or intentionally lied about. Next to the pain of her injuries, of frostbite, of losing comrades to war and wights and dragon flames, of men’s threats and lewd jests, of wild beasts and treachery, of watching Jaime lose his hand and sink into despair as into a black bog, Brienne finds that whatever shame she feels at being swived by Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer is paltry. It lacks teeth and edge. It is a tourney sword, a blunt tool that can batter her in her most vulnerable moments, but cannot cut or slash. It leaves no new scars. 

When she hefts and swings Oathkeeper, when she engages Jaime in an armored dance, when she opens herself to his hand, his mouth, his cock, she feels no shame, knows no dishonor. Only life. Life and more Spring mornings than she had dared hope for.


End file.
